


26

by WeCanGoDutch



Category: Lost
Genre: Eventual Romance, Gen, Multi, Smoke Monster, Sorry if I'm pissing you off with these meaningless tags, The Other 26, and it looked stupid without tags so here we are., because smut makes me uncomfortable, but I don't know what to tag it as yet, but no smut, enjoy.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-27
Updated: 2016-06-28
Packaged: 2018-06-04 18:44:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6670375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeCanGoDutch/pseuds/WeCanGoDutch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The 48 survivors on the beach got all the glory. They got the luggage, the shelter materials, the Dharma station, the doctor. The 22 from the tail section didn't fare as well. They were alone in the jungle with no resources and nobody to tend to their wounded. Hunted day and night, they lived in fear until some of the beach 48 found them. </p><p>But the other 26, the survivors from the cockpit and the lone seats that were thrown out of the plane when the tail section broke off, never found the other survivors. Ignored and forgotten by the Island, tormented by the mysterious howling beast in the trees, they clung to life by the skin of their teeth and struggled to keep themselves and each other safe. </p><p>Their story is never told, because none of them made it home to tell it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Margaret

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: THIS STORY CONTAINS SPOILERS
> 
> The plot follows a separate group of survivors not mentioned in the TV series, so spoilers will be limited. However, characters will later be introduced and events will take place that may give away parts of the story. Please do not read unless you have finished the series or are not deterred by minor spoilers.
> 
> Also, I love feedback. Love it. So if you have a question, comment, suggestion, anything, please comment, you'll make my day! I'm always trying my best to improve my writing and I can't do it without you guys! 
> 
> Thanks for reading,
> 
> ~Alix

On good days, stop-and-go traffic doesn’t bother me, and I can just coast through without getting too stressed out. I might beep the horn a few times just to let people know I’m there, mutter under my breath that the guy in front of me needs to learn how to use a blinker, chew on my lip in the stretches of stillness between the times when I can inch forward, but I generally don’t let it get to me.

Unfortunately, today is not one of those days. I’m already stressed out about missing the plane home after I forgot to set my alarm and unused to driving on the left side of the road, and as a result I’ve spent the past hour with my window rolled down, shouting obscenities at other cars and flipping people off every few seconds. 

The brake lights on the gaudy too-yellow Hummer in front of us go black, and I let out a sigh of relief as I let off the brake myself and let the car coast forward. 

Gracie sits quietly in the passenger seat, probably afraid I’ll turn my animosity on her if she draws attention to herself. It seems like she’s always afraid of something these days.

The traffic grinds to a halt again, and I take the opportunity to sneak a sideways glance at my sister. She sits back in the reclined seat, head resting against the window, chest rising and falling with every long, slow breath, looking for all the world like she’s asleep. But her eyes are open. 

I’m not surprised. I haven’t seen her close her eyes in years - she’s always awake, always alert. My stomach pinches with sympathy. I’ve heard things, breaking glass, sobbing, the drag of heavy furniture across wood floors, but I can’t even begin to imagine what she’s been through. 

Gracie lifts her head off the window, sensing my eyes on her. I don't have time to look away before she makes eye contact. “What’s wrong?” she asks, her tone deceptively light. She has become an expert at pretending everything’s okay. 

I shake my head and turn back to the windshield as the Hummer creeps forward again, forcing a smile and trying to mimic the faux lightness of her voice. “Nothing.”


	2. Andrew

The airport is full of people, everyone speaking at once. There are so many accents, so many languages, all packed into one building. It's incredible, but it makes me nervous. Just the thought of all the miscommunications happening every second is enough to spike my anxiety.

I sit stiffly on the plastic chair in the pre-boarding area with my sketchpad resting on my thighs, scratching out the shape of a woman's face with my pencil. She's sitting across from me with her legs crossed, bouncing her combat boot-clad foot. Her hair is so dark it's almost black, overgrown bangs falling into her face when she moves her head. Every time they fall she sweeps them back behind her ear in one smooth movement, and I have to wait until she's resumed her original position before I can continue drawing. I don't mind. I'm surprised I've been able to get this much done - usually the person I'm drawing moves before I really make any progress.

I try to examine her features nonchalantly so I don't creep her out, but the tiny ghost of a smile that pulls on the corners of her lips tells me she knows what I'm doing and has for awhile now.

I shift uncomfortably on the seat, unsure what to do. Do I approach her and apologize for staring at her? Or do I act like I never was in the first place?

I have opted for the second option and am bending down to tuck my sketchpad into my messenger bag when I hear someone plop down in the seat beside me and groan inwardly. _Here we go._

I sit up and am surprised to immediately make eye contact with the woman I was just drawing not ten seconds ago. I should say something. Anything. But I can't seem to make my mouth form words.

"You going to LA?" she asks. Her voice is raspy, but not unpleasantly so. It takes me a few seconds to register that she asked me a question, and by the time she's beginning to raise her eyebrows I'm too embarrassed to trust my words so I just nod mutely.

She smirks. "You're cute. Quiet. But cute." She leans forward, exaggeratedly looking over my legs at the messenger bag propped against my shins. "So. Can I see it?" She says it all so casually, like she isn't the prettiest girl to ever outwardly compliment me on anything besides my art.

"Ah, yeah," I stammer, fumbling with the straps of my bag. I don't want to show her. My art is like an extension of me, and showing an unfinished piece to a complete stranger feels like a violation. But I can't exactly say no, seeing as it is a picture of her. I finally get my bag open and pull out the sketchbook, still open to the half-done sketch, and hand it to her, praying she isn't offended.

She takes the pad, balancing it on the tips of her fingers like she's worried she'll ruin it. Her dark eyes take in every inch of the sketch, the expression on her face something that I can only describe as hunger. "It's been a long time since I've seen unfinished artwork," she says quietly, her voice softer than it was before. "My boyfriend was an artist. Well, he was a cop. But he drew a lot. He used to draw me." She hands back the sketchpad without flipping through the other pages, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

She must hear it, because she looks at me like she's expecting me to say something. I don't have anything to say, so I just stare back at her, waiting for her to look disgusted and walk away like all the other women do when I trip on my words or can't get them out.

But she doesn't walk away. Doesn't look disgusted. Instead, she looks grateful, and I don't know why.

"Why me?" she asks, "Why did you draw me? Why not-" she points across the aisle at a pretty blond girl sitting with a guy I assume is her boyfriend. She's beautiful, but not in the same way. She's Barbie doll pretty, with high cheekbones and a pouty mouth. She sees the woman pointing at her and smiles, but it's not really a smile. When she sees me, she adjusts her pink leather jacket and hikes her too-short miniskirt higher up her legs, winking suggestively at me. I look away quickly, but the woman next to me drives on, seemingly unaware of my discomfort. "Why not her?"

"I don't know, you just... you seemed so sad." My voice wavers a bit but I manage to keep it relatively steady. "I've found I'm drawn to sad people."

She looks surprised when I speak. "Irish. Didn't see that one coming." She's trying to hide that she's sad, but I can still hear it in her voice, see it in her posture. She obviously doesn't want to talk about it, though, so I let her change the subject.

"I grew up in Ireland, yes, but I've been an American citizen for a few years now." This time, I'm able to keep my voice steady. It surprises me. For some reason I feel more comfortable around this woman. I want to know her name, but I know I won't be able to bring myself to ask her.

"What's your name?" she asks, and I try to hide my smile. She must have read my mind. "What?" she asks warily, like she thinks I'm laughing at her.

I shake my head. "Nothing. I'm Andrew. Andrew Cropper."

She smiles and shakes my hand. "Nice to meet you, Andrew. I'm Ana Lucia."

Someone comes over the intercom to say the plane is boarding and Ana Lucia says goodbye and heads off to her boarding line. She passes the blond girl, who slams into her on the way by hard enough to make her stumble back a few steps and shoots a glance at me, not even bothering to apologize. Her boyfriend touches Ana Lucia's arm and apologizes, asks her if she's okay before the girl drags him off by his jacket. "Come on, idiot," I hear her say, "We've got a plane to catch, there's no time for damsels in distress."

I trace my thumb over the sketch, smiling faintly. My whole body feels warm, and I decide I need to find Ana Lucia when we get to LA, need to talk to her one more time. Whatever it takes.


	3. Cameron

The plane is big. Really big. Lindsey said it was too big to be affected by turbulence. 

She was wrong. 

I grip the seat, knuckles white, as the plane shudders. Lindsey grabs my wrist, the look of sheer terror on her face twisting her features into a nearly unrecognizable mask. My stomach leaps into my throat as the plane lurches again and I let go of the seat to hold onto her hand. There is a massive crack behind us and I turn just in time to see the tail section of the plane break off. I whip my head back around, my hands shaking as I try to ignore the screams behind me.

Don't look back. Don't you dare look back. I keep my eyes fixed straight ahead, staring at the seat in front of me - until there is no seat in front of me.

And suddenly I am hurtling through the air, flipping backwards so fast I can’t see anything besides the contrast of light blue and darker blue, sky and ocean.   
Until something happens inside my brain, and there is no contrast.

Just black.

I only have time to wonder briefly if this is what death feels like before I completely lose consciousness.


	4. Nora

He isn’t moving. 

Nothing is moving. 

No one is moving.

Except me. 

I’m moving. 

But not enough to get to him. I’m pinned underneath a seat, crushed by the weight of the enormous man sitting in it, a man I find myself praying is still alive. Not out of compassion for the man, or a general value of human life. It’s much more selfish than that. If he’s alive, he can help me. He can help me help John.

I strain my legs, trying to find something to push off of, something to plant my feet against. If the man is dead, I’ll have to do this on my own, and I have to be able to get to John. 

I feel something, something solid, just close enough to brush with my toes. Too far away to push off of. But it’s warm.

Warm means alive.

“Hey!” I call, my voice hoarse from screaming, “Hey, can you hear me? I need help!”

There is no answer, and the surge of hope begins to seep back out of me, soaking into the ground that I can’t get away from. And I can’t help but wonder if I’ll ever get out from under the wreckage, or if I’ll simply sink into the ground, too.


	5. Wolfe

“Hey! Hey, can you hear me? I need help!”

For a half second, I pause, considering. The voice isn’t that far away, but it’s in the opposite direction of the ocean sounds I’ve been following since I woke up. But she might be the only other survivor and, as much as I hate dealing with people, I don’t know how long it’d take me to go crazy without having someone to talk to. Lord knows the guys I left back in the woods won’t be reanimating their corpses to keep me company anytime soon.

So I turn around and head back toward the voice. She’s close, I can tell that much, but I don’t know how close. I hear another noise and freeze, straining my ears. I wait for her to call for help again, but she’s calling someone’s name, her voice raw with grief. At first I think she’s saying Tom, then Sean. She calls out one more time, then falls silent. I trudge on, the memory of her desperate cries just enough for me to pinpoint her location. 

By the time I reach her, she has started calling again, but her voice is weak, like she’s given up hope. She’s lying on her back under a tangled mess of white-painted metal, her body twisted so she can reach toward the man lying motionless across the clearing. She doesn’t see me.

“John,” she calls, her voice small and squeaky from screaming and crying. “John, please. Please.”

I hurry to her side and start to move pieces of the wreckage, avoiding the fat man perched on top of the pile. He’s obviously dead, his lips wet with blood and his eyes staring ahead unblinkingly. 

“No,” she cries, untwisting her body so she can look up at me. Her eyes are red and swollen, her lips cracked. “No, I’m okay. Help him.” 

I follow her trembling finger to the man I assume is John, lying facedown in the sand with his head at an unnatural angle. I shake my head and go back to pulling pieces of wreckage off of the woman, throwing them into the jungle. “No point. He’s dead.” 

“No!” she yells, eyes blazing with anger, “You don’t get to do that. Decide who lives and who dies. Just because I’m stuck here and you’re free doesn’t give you the right to play God.” There is so much rage in her voice, and it makes me angry. 

“Look, lady,” I growl, “Your friend is a goner. I’m trying to help you here, I don’t need you chewing me out for not helping a dead guy.”

“You don’t know he’s dead,” she spits back, but the anger in her voice is beginning to give way to fear. She knows he’s dead. She just won’t admit it to herself. “You didn’t even check his pulse.”

“His neck is broken. Snapped. His head is barely attached to his body right now. He’s. Dead. There’s no use in even checking, he’s a lost cause.” I pull another piece of wreckage off of her, and there is just enough space for her to wriggle out. 

She slides her body out from under the pile and runs toward the dead man, her whole body quaking so much I’m afraid she’ll die despite all my hard work. “John!” she cries, throwing herself onto the ground next to his body. 

It’s uncomfortable to watch her stroking the dead guy’s bloody cheek, holding his hand, pleading with him to stay with her. So I walk away. I’ve been through a lot today, and watching this is the last thing I need. 

I should have known to turn around when she stopped sobbing. But I'm so upset that the one person I found to keep me company is probably going to end up insane that I’m completely unprepared when she slams into me from behind. 

“You bastard!” she screams, her fingernails digging into the back of my neck like claws, “You could have saved him! You could have saved him! You could have…” she trails off, slumping to the ground and dissolving into sobs that wrack her slender body. 

I gingerly touch the scratches on my neck and my fingers come back bloody. I wrinkle my nose, disgusted. I should leave her. I should leave her here with her dead husband’s body and find someone else to talk to.

But the second I think it, I know I can’t do that. Odds are she is the only one left. It’s amazing enough that we both survived, I can’t expect anyone else to be as lucky as we were.

And so I sit down on the edge of the clearing, as far away from her as I can get, and wait.


	6. Cameron

I don't know if it’s the shock or the lack of oxygen or just the terror that gripped my body that made me black out, but when I wake up I’m in the water. Deep in the water. I gasp, and liquid fills my lungs. I close my mouth, shutting off the flow of water, and fumble with my seatbelt as my lungs scream for air. If I stay in the water any longer, I will die.

There’s something on my right hand, squeezing so hard it’s cutting off my circulation and making it nearly impossible to move my fingers. I try to brush it off, and my heart stops when I realize what it is. 

Lindsey. She’s in the water too, still holding my hand. And she’s unconscious. 

The second I realize Lindsey’s in danger, my brain seems to switch to autopilot and my panic dissolves. All the events of the past sixteen years of my life fall away until there is only me and Lindsey, trapped underwater. And I need to get us both out. 

As soon as the seatbelts are off, I wedge my arms underneath Lindsey’s and kick as hard as I can, my eyes fixed on the surface of the water. 

It’s not as far away as I’d thought it was, but I’m carrying the weight of two human bodies and running out of air fast. I pump my legs as hard as I possibly can, and by the time my head breaks the surface, I have no energy left. 

I roll onto my back, floating with Lindsey’s head resting on my stomach. My eyes flutter closed. I think a little nap may be in order. Lord knows I don't have enough energy to swim to the shore.

“Over there!” A woman’s voice cuts through the fog that surrounds my mind, jarring me awake. My eyes snap open, and I turn my head to see a man and two women running into the water, their clothes torn and their skin bloody. 

Do I look like that? I don't feel any cuts or scrapes. Maybe I was lucky. 

Nobody’s that lucky. 

I let my eyes close again, exhaustion tugging my limbs deeper into the water. I shouldn’t fall asleep. If I fall asleep there’s a good chance I’ll drown. But I’m so tired...

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I will try to post new chapters as often as possible but my schedule is a bit insane so there may be gaps between posts. Also there's this pretty little thing called writer's block that likes to saunter in every once in a while to crash the party. Please be patient, I will post new chapters as soon as I can. 
> 
> PS: This story is pretty much just me having fun and isn't really meant to be a work of art (I promise I'm a better writer when I try harder), but if my flippant writing style is really pissing you off let me know and I'll try to step up my game ;)
> 
> Love you all,
> 
> ~Alix


End file.
